


Of fire and iron

by SlaveToGravity



Category: youtube - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Fire, Happy Ending, Lies, M/M, Pain, Self-Harm, Triggers, iron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7312531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlaveToGravity/pseuds/SlaveToGravity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the fire met the iron, everything changed.</p><p>/!\ I'm french, my english can be bad at some moments. I think...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of fire and iron

**Author's Note:**

> Warning ! I'm french, and I'm sorry for my bad english. I'm really, really sorry. If there is a fault, if I'm wrong somewhere, please tell me. And I'm really sorry.  
> Also, it's just a test, to see if I can speak and write english properly. Because I'm bad, y'know, so I give it a try.  
> It's short, really short, and it's bad, really bad, but I hope you like this. Thank you, anyway, for reading this :3

          It wasn't so easy. It wasn't a "right or wrong" test. Life wasn't like that. And from the very beginning, Jack knew it. He knew the fact that he couldn't respond by a simple "yes" or a simple "no". He knew that. But he didn't know the right answers, the good ones, the true ones. He couldn't respond to any question, he couldn't pass throught any obstacle in front of him. Because he just couldn't answer a stupid and simple question.

Why was he doing this ?

          Cutting. Hours after hours, years after years, _blades_ after _blades_ , he was still cutting. Not only his wrist, but all his arm. From his shoulder to his fingers. All his right arm. Not his left arm, only his right arm. The one that should give the good answer, but that simply couldn't respond. He was cutting, again and again, because he couldn't find a proper answer. He was cutting so much that at some point, he just couldn't moove his right elbow, and sometimes, his entire arm. The stupid one. He was cutting so much that his arm was painted in large and dark cuts, that his bath, his eyes, were full of blood and tears. He never cried because of that, because of his cuts, but he cried so much for his stupidity, his simple mind that couldn't answer properly. And day after day, cutting session after cutting session, Tears after tears, blood after blood, he still couldn't answer this question.

" Why are you doing _this_ ? "

          His brain was shouting so much at his stupidity, his body - no, his corpse, was crying at his pain, but his mind just couldn't say "no" to this. To his cutting session. Was he afraid of this ? Was he enjoying this ? He couldn't find a proper answer. He couldn't find an end, and "yes" or a "no", a simple answer that could help him end all of this. But he couldn't find it. It wasn't that easy. So he was cutting. With each day a new blade, made of iron, black iron, that could almost shout at his pity self :

" Why are you not dying, _Jack_ ? "

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

          This pain, this sensation, those feelings, everything was so perfect. So beautiful. This flame dancing around his eyes, licking his throat, cutting his hands, burning his life. This beautiful orange and red flame, tickling his stomach, whispering him so much words, poetic sentences, letters after letters, everything was so beautiful. So beautiful, so poetic, that he couldn't say "no" to this flame, to this pain. He just couldn't throw it away, like he threw away his own life.

Was he enjoying this ?

          Burning every inch of his not visible skin, having a dark and dead skin under his clothes, he didn't even know if it was some sort of fantasm. But, oh god how much he was loving this. The cold and transparent flame, burning his clear brown skin. Every day, at the same hour, he was burning himself. Matches, lighter, eveything was good for him, for his pityful self. He wasn't hurt, he wasn't sad, he was just in love with this feeling of pain, this strange sensation on his skin. He wasn't dead, he was alive, he knew this. And he was enjoying this burning feeling. He could never throw it away. Never. He loved too much the brown, red and dark traces, the blood boiling under the flame, the skin falling apart, he loved too much his body being torn apart by a single flame. This was poetic, this was pleasurable, this was perfect, everything. But he was judged for  this. Everyday, he was criticized. Eveyday, he was peered. Everyday, people were asking him why, when, where. But he didn't care.

" Why are you _burning_ yourself ? "

          Could he really answer this question ? Everything was perfect for him. His black and red hair was showing to the world how much he loved to burn himself alive. And that was all they had to know. He loved it. They tried to help him, to put pink, blue on his hair, but he never gave up. Each time, he was painting his hair again, in a lively red, the red of the fire he was in love with. Time after time, they started to give up. And all they said, after too much time wasted away :

" Why are you crazy, _Mark_ ? "

 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~

 

But one day, everything fall apart. The iron met the fire. the fire burned the iron, and the iron cut the fire.

          The fire melted the pain, the fear, the doubts. The fire changed the iron, the red flame of the hot fire burned the black blade made of sad iron. The only thing remaining from the fire were the cuts, the deep and red cuts. The fire burned the scars, threw away the blood. The fire killed the iron and saved Jack.

          The iron cut the fire. It cut the matches, the lighter. It cut the false pleasure, it cut the false love, it cut the false feeling of security. The iron, the black blade, cut the lies. The iron cut the bad and mean flame, it cut his bad poetry, his loud songs, his painful dances. It cut everything. All that remained was just a ruined skin, a destroyed self, but a happy and joyful man. It saved Mark.

          Jack answered every questions. The fire on his eyes saved his life. Mark lived happy, trully happy. He never lied. The iron on his words hurts, but never killed. Were they happy ? They didn't know. But at the end, they lived together, helping each other, against the iron and the fire.

When the fire met the iron, eveything changed.


End file.
